


Good Night, Night Vale

by carbonlifeform (caffeineandjetfuel)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:49:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeineandjetfuel/pseuds/carbonlifeform
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Night Vale Town Riot. Alternate Universe in which Cecil is a lone survivor in the zombie apocalypse who, driven to madness by the isolation, begins to imagine up a radio show to cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Night, Night Vale

Cecil stared at the microphone sitting on the desk, as he had now for days, or maybe it was weeks. Months? He could no longer remember. Hesitantly, he reached for it.  
No, his mind said, the moment you do this you’re lost.

But he picked it up anyway, brought it close to his mouth, thought about what to say, and suddenly it was all slipping from his lips smoothly, as if he had rehearsed it. Had he rehearsed it? Had he planned out his words as he stared at the worn metal?

“A friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome to Night Vale.” He paused, only briefly, his better judgment telling him to put the microphone down before he was too far gone. He ignored it.

“Hello, listeners.” No one was really listening, but that was okay. It was fun to pretend.

“To start things off, I’ve been asked to read this brief notice: The City Council announces the opening of a new Dog Park at the corner of Earl and Somerset, near the Ralph’s.” He could see it, if he went to the window. “They would like to remind everyone that dogs are not allowed in the dog park. People are not allowed in the dog park. It is possible you will see hooded figures in the dog park. Do not approach them. Do not approach the dog park.”

He took the microphone with him, its cord stretching enough to look out the smudged glass, where dark figures wandered aimlessly within the fences. He closed his eyes, not wanting to confront the cold reality of what lay inside. “The fence is electrified and highly dangerous. Try not to look at the dog park, and especially do not look for any period of time at the hooded figures…The dog park will not harm you.”

From there he changed topics, talking about angels. It made him feel better to think that the old woman who had once babysat him was protected by them, even if they probably didn’t exist. In his carefree youth she had sat on her porch with a watchful eye, chastising him when he got too close to the road. His mind wandered.  
He continued to talk until the light waned. “I hope all of you out there have someone to sleep through it with.” He said, looking at the pile of blankets in the corner of the room that served as his bed. “Or, at least, good memories of when you did. Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.”

The next day, he did it again, and it was easier this time, to tell himself that it didn’t hurt just to talk. It became a routine, telling of Steve Carlsberg, who he had once had a fist fight with in grade school, of his uncle John Peters, who he remembered had been a farmer, of all the people who had come and gone from his life in their turns. The world didn’t seem so dark and empty when he looked at it through the eyes of Night Vale. There was only one pizza place in town, the others, he knew from his foraging, were burned to the ground. It was Big Rico, he decided, who committed arson to eliminate the competition. But in his Night Vale, no one paid it any mind. 

He took to wandering around the station as far as the cord would allow as he rambled, his mind filling in the blanks. One day he was too loud, and the door to the manager’s office shook, unmistakable growling and groaning locked within. He retreated back to the recording booth, curled up under the desk. It was station management, his brain told him, who was displeased with his report.

Cecil wasn’t sure how long he’d been living there, doing his show. The last vestiges of his sanity reminded him desperately that this wasn’t his show, or his town, that this was in fact an illusion of his own making. “Now that I think about it, I have also never bothered to actually check whether this mic is attached to any sort of recording or broadcasting device. And it is possible that I am alone in an empty universe, speaking to no one, unaware that the world is held aloft merely by my delusions and my smooth, sonorous voice….More on this story as it develops, I say, possibly only to myself.” He couldn’t accept that, made himself think about something else, anything else. But the thought still plagued him, haunted his mind as he kept talking.

“And now a continuation of our previous investigation into whether I am literally the only person in the world, speaking to myself in a fit of madness caused by my inability to admit the tragedy of my own existence. Leland, our newest intern, recently brought me a cup of coffee. He is no longer in my field of vision, but I do still have the cup of coffee,” He stared hard at the mug sitting on the desk. Had it always been there? Had Leland made it, or had he? He was too afraid to see if it was hot or cold. No, Leland was definitely real. He can’t have hallucinated his intrepid intern, here to assist him in bringing the news to the people. His grip on reality was firm. Leland had simply been killed in pursuit of the news story. That’s why he didn’t see him anymore.

As the weeks stretched on, he delved deeper into his more personal memories. One day, he finally brought himself to turn on his battered cell phone again. It was almost out of charge, but he was desperate for even the indirect contact of another voice besides his own. He played his voicemail, hearing again a voice that brought tears to his eyes, one that would soon be gone forever when that last bar of battery life was lost.

“Cecil, sorry to bother you while you’re on a run, but…clocks aren’t real. None of these clocks are real. I disassembled several watches and clocks this week. Are all clocks this way, Cecil?” Cecil swallowed a lump in his throat, Carlos had sounded so scared. They had been holed up in an old watch shop for about three months. A scraping sounded in the background. “There’s something at the door, Cecil…I need to go, okay? I’ll call you back in…well, I don’t know.”

Next voice message.

“There’s a man in a jacket outside the door, Cecil. He’s not trying to get in; he’s just standing in front of the door. I can’t tell if he’s turned or not. I’m peering through a crack in the boards—Oh no, he saw me!” Cecil remembered the terror of hearing that message, he’d been detained by a hoard on his supply run.

Next voice message.

“Sorry about that, Cecil. He was turned. I’m fine, but he got in and I couldn’t grab our stuff. Anyway, I need to meet you. Call me back and let me know where, it’s important that we stick together…and…I’m sorry about the clocks thing. You have no idea what it’s like to be locked up alone, with nothing but…but clocks…clocks everywhere…” Cecil vaguely remembered that night, after they’d found new shelter, convincing Carlos that there was nothing wrong with the clocks, that it was all in his head, and how important it was to hold onto his sanity. The irony wasn’t lost on him, but he had no Carlos there to tell him the same, to take the microphone from him and ask him to stop. And so he didn’t. He let his cracking sanity fill in the blanks of those messages, and smiled with what he came out of it with.

“Did you hear that, listeners? A date!”

Slowly but surely, he was transforming his life, all the horrible things that had happened this past year becoming part of his elaborate reimagining.

“It is one year since the arrival in Night Vale of our most beloved and singular citizen.” Cecil said during his broadcast one day, looking at the tally marks on the wall that told him what day it was. “Oh, just one short year ago. I had arranged a small ceremony to mark this occasion, and invited Carlos to attend. However, it looks like he will be…delayed.” Oh how he wished Carlos would come through that door…how he needed Carlos to come through that door…vaguely, he knew, it was the anniversary of something, but he couldn’t remember what.

“But I am not worried. I am not upset. I know that Carlos will be here for the ceremony. I have the trophy here in my hand. I am holding the trophy and I am not upset. Carlos will be here. He will. I am holding the trophy!” He really was, one hand held his microphone, the other a white-knuckled grip on a trophy. It was gold and had once resided on a shelf, an award some radio host had won and kept around the office. Cecil ignored the dried blood on the corner. No, he needed to talk about something else.

But, inevitably, his mind returned to Carlos. Carlos who had thrown himself in danger for a group of survivors who would never appreciate fully the sacrifice he made. Carlos who had rushed to barricade the doors against the hoard…who had declared that they had nothing to fear only seconds before the blood welled through his shirt…

“He staggered, fell to his knees—so much blood! He collapsed completely.” Anger welled within him at those people, at himself, at this world. “Curse this town, that saw Carlos die. Curse me. Curse it all!” He struggled to contain himself. “Let us take a moment to—Let us…take this moment—Ladies and gentlemen, let us mourn the pass—Can’t...” He couldn’t say it, he couldn’t admit it. “I can’t! I am still holding this trophy! I—We go now to this puh…pre-recorded public service announcement.” He collapsed back in his seat, choking on his sobs. He wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready to remember this.

But the memories came unbidden, swimming through his tears. Cecil had had to take Carlos from there, the huddled survivors had forced them out, shunned the man that had saved their lives so bravely. In the darkness Cecil had half-carried Carlos, ignoring his pleas to leave him and return to the safety of that shelter. Somehow, they had found themselves here, in the radio station. Cecil had tried, tried so very hard to save him. He had held his boyfriend all through the night.

“When it happens…” Carlos had gasped, struggling to breath, “You have to do it, Cecil…” He gripped Cecil’s arm hard, nails digging into his skin. “You HAVE to….promise me.” Cecil had shook his head, pressing their foreheads together.

“I can’t…Carlos, I can’t…don’t make me promise that.”

“I don’t…I don’t want to be…one of them…I don’t want to hurt you…”

“Then don’t leave me alone…” A long silence followed, punctuated only by Cecil’s heartbeat in his ears. “…Carlos…? ……Carlos?!” He pulled back, searching his lover’s eyes, hunting for any sign that the man he loved was still in there, but the chocolate orbs were devoid of life. Cecil’s world crumbled around him. An hour passed as he shook with sobs, cradling his precious Carlos, and then, it happened. It was slow, the jerky, hitched movements. His leg twitched, arm groped at the air blindly, and a low groan broke the silence.

Cecil released him, scooting back several steps on the cold floor. Out of instinct, his hand reached, feeling for something to defend himself. Carlos had dragged himself up, was pulling himself towards him, his blank gaze following Cecil’s movements. Cecil swallowed hard. He could let it happen. He could let it end…In this wretched form, it was what Carlos wanted. Cecil could give him that, let him strip the flesh from his bones. It would hurt less…But this wasn’t Carlos, and the real Carlos had wanted Cecil to live. His fingers wrapped around the first blunt object they came in contact with, and he brought the heavy trophy down on Carlos’s skull, again, and again, until he stopped moving.

No. It didn’t happen. Carlos had been attacked by a tiny city in that bowling alley…and he had survived. He had to have survived. He HAD to. “Ladies, gentlemen, how wonderful! Carlos is not dead at all!”

More days passed before he spoke at length about Carlos again, Cecil’s broken mind slowly mending the damage of that memory. His mind stretched back, reaching for good memories, but he could barely remember what life was like before the zombie apocalypse had started. So instead, he just went to the beginning of that, to what had been his and Carlos’ five year anniversary date. He spoke about the fancy restaurant they’d gone to, where Carlos had proposed once upon a time, and at which the scientist had reserved a private room just for them on the occasion.

“Our waiter, formerly a heavyset man with a large mustache, was now a buzzing shadow man defined only by the absence of light in the vague shape of a torso and limbs.” The waiter had had no light in his eyes as he came at them, snarling like some sort of animal. It had begun. “We asked for the check, and then made our escape from the doorless room by breaking the window, using the brick our waiter had provided for that purpose.” Carlos had been quick to react, smashing the window with his chair and throwing his coat over the sharp glass on the windowsill for them to climb out. The streets had been in chaos, and the two had cut through the park, trying to get home.

“Meanwhile, our fellow park goers had ceased screaming and had taken up being strange, buzzing shadow beings.” Slowly people had turned, and the screaming in the darkness had gone eerily quiet. They had managed to make it home, barely, and piled into the car. The drive had been nightmarish. Those…things…were everywhere. Carlos kept yelling at him from the passenger seat, directing him where to turn.

“A woman ran at our car, screaming, a few of the shadow people chasing her, but before I could even touch the brake, she must have changed her mind because she had already turned into a shadow person herself.” He had wanted to stop. She was screaming for help. Carlos had told him to keep going, to lock the doors, it was too late for her, and they had to think about their own safety. That was the last night Cecil had seen his home.

More weeks passed. Cecil was running out of food, and it was getting harder and harder to find more. This place wouldn’t last in the long run. Imaginary corn couldn’t feed him. Outside the window, the only life that remained was the mysterious helicopters that had begun landing on a rooftop helipad some distance away. Experience had taught Cecil to be suspicious of the influence of these outsiders. Occasionally, Cecil saw a black van in that same area. Dried blood and the desperate clawing of the hoard had made some of the letters illegible, leaving only “Strex”. Everywhere Cecil went as he scavenged, Strex got their first.

“Look around you: Strex. Look inside you: Strex. Go to sleep: Strex. Believe in a smiling God: StrexCorp. It is EVERYTHING.” He told his listeners.

More time passed. Cecil began to wonder just what was hallucination and what was reality. Were there mountains here? Were mountains even real? How could there be a light out there? In a moment of desperation, he had gone back home, where he and Carlos had once made a life for themselves. He didn’t react to the way it had been ransacked. He looked at the pictures on the walls, the smiles that seemed so foreign now. But this was what he needed. Something concrete.

Cecil pulled out his old box of childhood things and sifted through it. None of it felt real anymore. He could hardly remember a time when he might have treasured these things. He felt numb. He never noticed the figure stumbling over to him until it was too late…

“Perhaps you noticed something strange yesterday. And perhaps you have forgotten it. Welcome to Night Vale.” Cecil was huddled in his corner of the recording booth, clutching his microphone and ignoring the stinging pain in his arm. His head was swimming. Past and present, truth and fiction were mixing together as sweat beaded on his brow. The fever had hit.

“It’s kind of…it’s this kind of flickering in the corner of my eye, like someone’s waving their arms right next to me, but when I turn, there’s nothing there. Oh, well. Oh, hey! Do you want to hear me sing?” Cecil soon learned that singing made the fuzziness in his head worse, so much worse. Within minutes he felt the buzzing in his head even when he wasn’t talking. His vision flickered. “I wish my brother could be proud of me, but no family member is perfect, they become perfect when you learn to accept them for what they are.”

Cecil frowned as his own words echoed in his ears. Did he have a brother? Had he ever had a brother? He couldn’t remember. He looked out the window from his place on the floor, but his vision was so blurred he couldn’t tell if there were any stars. All he saw was void and the moon as he vaguely wondered what death would feel like. “Nothing will change about the moon when you die. It will be the same—still the moon, still there. Still the moon.” The movement in the corner of his eye was getting worse, distracting him. He told himself he wasn’t scared.

He was so hot…so thirsty. He dragged himself up, stumbling past the manager’s door to the bathroom. He almost fell, one hand catching himself on the sink while the other grabbed hold of the cloth he had used to cover the mirror, accidentally dislodging it. He stared at his reflection, at his gaunt face, at the dried blood caked in his hair. His vision blurred. “I’m looking in a mirror. The mirror is not covered. The flickering movement is just…behind me. I—“ His voice broke off and he threw up in the sink, all bile and blood, no content. He wanted to die, he wanted to let the sickness take him, to just give up, but…he had to finish. He was compelled to finish this. He staggered back to the booth, shakily held the microphone, and rambled as his thoughts swam.

“May we all remember what it was like to be so young. May we remember it factually, and not remember anything that is false, or incorrect.” He couldn’t remember what was real anymore. What had he made up to comfort himself? “May we be human—beautiful, stupid, temporal, endless.” He didn’t want to be one of them…

His vision was growing dim. He felt for his pulse, felt it slowing to a dull thud. “And as the sun sets, I place my hand upon my heart, feel that it is still beating, and remind myself: Past performance is not a predictor of future results.” Maybe…maybe he wouldn’t turn. Maybe he was somehow immune. The thought comforted him.

“Stay tuned now for whatever happens next in your life. Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”


End file.
